


i know

by beebae



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, basically i'm self-projecting okay, don't ask me pls i wrote this at 5am, implied/referenced eating disorder, present day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 15:11:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beebae/pseuds/beebae
Summary: Raja is a breaking mess.Manila is doing her best.They both already know.





	i know

**Author's Note:**

> please don’t ask me to describe what this is i wrote it at 5am this morning with no sleep, didn’t sleep until i finished 2k of angst, and there’s been no edit. basically, raja & manila current day at some sort of event ft. angst bc i am That Bitch.
> 
> this is my second (2nd) time writing rpf & my first time writing in the drag race fandom, so please be kind. i only started watching drag race last week, so i’m definitely not the expert, but i have binged tons of content. please let me know what you think & leave some feedback, i’d really appreciate it! if you'd like to follow my tumblr it's @queenraja

“Fuck!”

Sworn to a frustrated reflection, staring blankly back at her in the mirror, and, unfortunately, overheard by a passing Manila in the hall. Her footsteps went unheard on the cement ground despite their loud echoing, which stilled quickly at the outburst, pausing just beyond the doorway to peak in and see what had caused it.

The culprit? A shaking hand, bearing the weight of a mascara wand that had slipped and missed, and stabbed just down below, where cheekbones gave way to softer skin, darker skin where sleepless nights pooled. 

Raja bore her teeth together, and shoved hair- grey, she reminded herself- out of her face as she bent over, closer to the mirror, close enough that breath could fog, taking a napkin to begin to scrub. Here, the foundation didn’t cover wrinkles, pressed from years of smiling and crying and laughing- mostly crying. So close, she could see the way fat seemed to cling to her bones, underneath her jaw that was becoming less and less defined, and she’d fucked up the contour on her stupid crooked nose and-

“You’re going to make yourself bleed.” Raja froze, tissue hovered just over her cheek from where she’d been wiping, and while she didn’t move, she dared to flick her eyes up to where Manila entered now, revealing her hiding place.

There was no response, just a silence that hung for a moment, and Raja couldn’t figure why. It could’ve been a joke. Easily, she could’ve cracked a smile at her old friend, and stood up, and greeted her. Manila was fully dressed; a 50’s polka dot hoop skirt, as put together as always, and not a stitch out of place. They had hours to go until the filming started, and yet, she looked ready to pounce in front of the audience in a heartbeat. Raja exhaled, looked back to the tissue, which had successfully pilled up with balls of mascara, foundation, paper from the rubbing. 

“You don’t go through this many years of drag without getting thick skin,” she responded, trying for a joke at least, still facing the mirror.

“I mean, look how red you’ve made your skin,” Manila ignored her, speaking quietly, coming to her side. They weren’t touching, but they could’ve been. Manila’s perfectly manicured nails hovered just above a thin, tattoo’d arm, as if asking her to oblige, her eyes not leaving Raja’s face for a second.

Raja straightened her back slightly, eyes focused again on the mirror, on Manila’s face, so perfect, watching her. Giving her the time of day. It sank so deep in her chest, past her heart, past her ribs, that for a moment, she thought she could barely breathe, she might choke on it. Her own nails, black and chipped, a bit, clutched tighter at the tissue in her hand. 

“It’s alright,” she assured, just over a whisper. “I just forgot what I was doing for a second.”

Raja didn’t know what she was arguing against. That she hadn’t done it on purpose? Did Manila believe that? That she had wanted to-? One flick up at Manila’s face in the mirror, at painted brows that had furrowed down, and Raja knew the answer. Manila’s hand made the rest of the painstaking journey down to Raja’s skin, and her palm was so warm, so soothing, so comforting. 

Raja forced another exhale out. Well, she hadn’t, had she? There was no reason to be worried, was there?

“Sit down,” Manila gestured decisively to the stool, tucked away under the dressing room counter with her other hand, and then ventured a smile. “Let’s get your face finished, girl. You can’t go out looking like that.”

“I can-“

“Sit down.” And it wasn’t an option, anymore. 

Raja’s eyebrows arched high, and she nodded, breaking away from the solace of Manila’s presence just long enough to drag the stool out, and sit, obediently in front of her, waiting. Manila didn’t even hesitate, leaning in with all the poise and practice of a professional, foundation cream gliding over the area that Raja had scrubbed away. For a moment, Raja let herself relax, let her eyes close patiently; but shoulders remained tight, and upright, and elegance of a model, someone who was always a model.

After a heartbeat, as she turned to cap the foundation cream, Manila spoke: “So, you wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Well, we’re gonna talk about it.”

She began to sponge away at Raja’s face, gentle, firm. Raja hardly even managed a sigh, that constricted feeling returning, swelling up in her throat, in her chest. Lucky she had her eyes closed.

She knew she shouldn’t let her face break, not while Manila was working; she knew she shouldn’t let even a sign of anything pull through. It was unprofessional, it was selfish, it was stupid. Her eyebrows still pinched together, though, to keep everything together, like duct tape on a dam. Immediately, that feeling began to burn, and she felt it strangle in her voice as she said, again: “No.”

Movements stopped on her face; it was unprofessional to move, she thought, she was a model, she knew she shouldn’t have broken, she shouldn’t have ruined it. Instead she felt fingers move tenderly to her jawline, a startling feeling that nearly made her jump.

“Raja, hey,” Manila’s voice came through again, so quiet, so soft, so… so worried. Raja didn’t open her eyes, feeling the tightness only worsen. It was _selfish_ to make Manila- her friend- worry about her, to do all this. She was a winner, wasn’t she? She was supposed to do all this on her own, she shouldn’t need help, she shouldn’t need anything. Manila tried again, her voice even softer, fingers lifting Raja’s face up- and she didn’t know she’d even dropped it down. “Hey, look at me.”

For a moment, she couldn’t. She was too afraid of letting the tears spill through if she did, and then they would have to start over again- no, wait. That was stupid, to assume that Manila would even still want to help her. _She_ would have to start over again. She was afraid of opening her eyes and seeing nothing but frustration, but anger at her actions. 

But that pleading voice fought through, a cutting knife that told her not to disappoint, not to upset Manila. She blinked open dark eyes, shining bright from tears she tried, and failed, to fight away. And there was Manila, looking down at her with all the adoration, and patience, and worry in the world. “Hey,” Manila repeated, _breathed_, her hand not leaving Raja’s face for even a second.

They weren’t supposed to do this. Manila was quirky, and funny, and out of the box, and loud, and annoying, but never in a bad way. Raja was out of this world, and introverted, but extroverted, and every contradiction, and eccentric. They didn’t _do_ serious. Not even when they were a bottle and a half deep into Barefoot Pink Moscato on a Wednesday night. Not ever. Yet here she was, crying practically in Manila’s arms for no reason that she could fathom, and Manila was standing for it.

“I’m sorry,” she managed as soon as she could, the feeling of tears looking underneath her chin, just above her Adam’s apple. 

“No.”

“But I am-“ Manila cut her off by kneeling before her- and, oh, God, Raja could only think of her _look_, how she needed to be careful about the dress, please don’t tear it- moving her hands to rest on Raja’s stocking-covered knees, instead, as light as a butterfly.

“Girl.” Manila gave a little shake of her head, then, as if throwing away that idea, and spoke again, much gentler. “Raja. You have nothing to be sorry for. You never do.”

It felt, then, like a truck had slammed into her, and Raja was still catching her breath; if she had it, she would’ve argued back, but Manila wasn’t done.

“You don’t owe anyone else anything else. You already proved yourself by winning,” Raja’s mouth opened but Manila held up a finger to silence her, “No, listen to me. You’ve proved yourself once and you’ve proved yourself a thousand times after that. You don’t owe anyone anything of yourself. The only person you owe an apology to is yourself. You’re the only one still judging you. Everyone else here-“

She stopped, then, letting her lips part into a smile. “Everyone else here who _matters_, that is, already knows who you are, and what you can do. They don’t _care_, Raja.” Her hands came up to Raja’s arms, then, as if begging, pleading. “They don’t care.”

Silence sat over them, like an overcast cloud as Raja tried to swallow all of her friend’s words back, only managing a desperate: “Manila…”

But Manila stood to full height, then, hand resting on Raja’s head, her words even more distressed. “Let yourself rest, Raja, please. _Please_.“

Delicate, polished fingers moved, naturally, almost, through Raja’s hair, long strands parting as she moved from temple to the base of her neck. As if instinctively, Raja couldn’t help but be drawn forward, as if intuitively pulled towards Manila’s presence, towards her touch. It felt more like a command in a second, and before Raja could protest, she was being pulled into a hug, pressed into soft fabric of Manila’s dress, just above her belly buttons, both of her firm arms wrapped around Raja’s head.  
  
“Manila, the makeup,” she whispered, into the dark warmth, her shoulders still stiff, still tense, and not letting up for a second. “Your dress-”  
  
“Shut up,” came the tight response, and for a second, past her own tears, and past her own simmering doubts, if Raja listened carefully enough, she might have heard the slight crack in Manila’s voice. “I don’t care about my dress.”  
  
Her lips came down to Raja’s scalp, bent over her in a protective stance. For a moment, just a brush, just a taste of a kiss pressed over Raja’s skin. Her fingers continued to stroke through, up and down her neck, the base of her skull, responding to every shudder of a sob that wracked through her body. _But you should_, Raja’s head ached. _We go on stage in an hour, in front of hundreds of people, you should care. The dress matters, I don’t. _

“I care about you,” Manila continued, spoken against her skin, sighed like a prayer, a silent longing; perhaps if she said it with enough power, enough conviction, enough love, it could be believed. _I don’t_, Raja retaliated. Manila didn’t let up, not letting go of her for a second, holding all of the pieces of Raja inside of her slender arms and holding her tight, together. “I care about _you_. Not about my stupid dress, or makeup getting on it, or if your mascara isn’t perfect, or if you cry in front of me. I don’t care about that. Only about you. I…”

It became evident for the first time that Raja was not the only one crying. Manila took in a hitched breath, struggling for a moment past her ribs to gather up the breath to continue, swallowing hard and fighting through it. She spoke when Raja felt her own words stolen away, blinking into the fabric of her stomach, her face hot and wet and refusing to release everything for even a moment.  
  
“Raja, I,” that same hesitation clenched in her chest again, and this time Raja felt it, pulling back with tear raw cheeks to meet a reflection, Manila’s face wearing the same anguish, the same desperation. 

The weight of the situation began to sink over them, years of friendship inflating to fill the tiny space between them, and with all the strength that she could muster, Raja moved one thumb up, swiping away one black-stained tear from Manila’s cheek, swiping it away with the twitch of a smile over her unpainted lips. Manila’s touch faded from her hair, sliding to her shoulders, to her elbows as Raja’s arms reached up to Manila’s face instead, framing contoured cheekbones. Tears slipped over the back of her hands, as she stroked the apple of Manila’s cheeks.

Raja nodded, wordless for a moment as she fished out the ability to speak from the pit of her chest, deep within her heart. “I know.”  
  
Manila’s tears twisted into a laugh, tightening on her elbows. “Do you?”

Another nod, another wipe of tears still flowing. She hardly even noticed her own, their shining, red-lined eyes meeting in the middle as she breathed in, and out, and spoke: “I love you, too.”

And without another hesitation, she drew her in close.


End file.
